


Meet Me In the Woods

by CarpeVesper



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-08-29 00:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16733661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarpeVesper/pseuds/CarpeVesper
Summary: the truth is stranger than my own worst dreams // now the darkness got a hold on meHellish circumstances forge the strangest friendships.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [ODDFELLOWS](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9658397) by [DrTanner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrTanner/pseuds/DrTanner). 



Evan stares into the campfire’s flames. All sense of time has left him. He’s not even sure if time passes in this wretched place. Everything exists in only two states: the still quiet of the forest or the violent panic of the trials. Either way, time has become meaningless. Despite his knowledge that he deserves to live in this hell for his crimes, Evan cannot separate himself from the loneliness. It sticks to him like tar.

He's not entirely alone, in a sense. Others exist here. Evan sees them, but only in passing, on their way to the campfire, on their way to the trials. He doesn’t focus on them for long. To view them directly means they cease being shadowy figures and they become what they are, and to do that means he must acknowledge that he is another beast among them.

He is the only one who sits by the fire. The fire provides the strangest comfort. It isn’t the violent spark in the mineshaft what must have been all those years ago, the spark that damned him to this realm of suffering. It’s a persistent, unceasing crackle, promising warmth and comfort and better times than these. Evan watches it for hours on end, until time bleeds into itself and becomes one large blur, only broken up by the brief violence of the trials. That’s what Evan used to do. Now, time is sharp and distinct, because he must always spend half his time minding the shape that had crept out of the darkness and sat across from him.

Evan, logically, supposes the Shape is doing the same thing as he is: staring into the fire. Even so, it is impossible to shake the feeling that the Shape is staring at _him_. His eyes flicker back and forth between the fire and him. Orange and yellow flames. Blue jumpsuit and expressionless mask. Flames. Mask. Flames. Mask. Christ, the mask is unnerving. At least his own is deliberately frightening, with its beady eyes and jagged teeth. The Shape’s mask has nothing, nothing but blank eyes, an equally blank expression, and pale skin. Once his bane, the trials become a haven of sorts, a place Evan knows he will be that the Shape cannot follow.

The day Evan snaps is the day the fire flickers in just the right way as to reveal the Shape’s eyes, for an instant. Seeing them alone fills him with fear. The right is blue, and the left is a pale, scarred white. What’s worse is that they do not stare into the fire. They stare right at him. With timing that might have been coincidental, but may not have been, the Shape’s hand clenches around his knife.

Evan takes off running. He’s not sure where he will go, but the knowledge in the back of his brain that, no matter his location in this damned forest, he will always be able to see the campfire when he needs it, keeps him running farther and farther. When his lungs and legs burn, he stops and assesses his surroundings. A clearing. That’s where he is. Dead leaves and dry sticks litter the ground. It’s just enough for a fire.

If that Shape isn't going to let Evan sit by the campfire, he’ll just make his own damn fire. It takes an hour, between gathering the kindling and the wood and trying to make a spark with nothing but two sticks, but he manages to get a fire going. There. His own fire to watch. No Shape to bother him. Nothing but him and the woods. 

Evan creates his own, new normal for the next week, or several weeks, or however much time had passed in this timeless place. He sits by his own fire, and when the light of the Entity’s campfire, far away, shines out of the corner of his eye, he goes to it, to complete his next trial. With him no longer at the campfire most of the time, he sees little more of the others. The Shape is the only one he sees now. His blank eyes follow Evan every time he returns and every time he leaves. He’d be Evan’s totem, another source of comforting constancy in this inconstant place, if he weren’t so goddamn _frightening_.

Between the trials, Evan wanders the woods. They go on forever. Given the Entity’s general lack of attention to detail, he suspects that this is not an endless forest, but rather the same section of forest, repeated and layered back on itself. In any case, he always manages to find his way back to the clearing. Whenever he wants to return, some innate sense pulls at his gut, leading him in the right direction. Today, he drifts between the trees, after a particularly well-done trial. He has pleased the Entity, for now. At least for a short while, she will not call upon him. As he walks, Evan sees what looks like a passing shadow out of the corner of his eye. He’s ready to dismiss it until he hears the snap of twigs.

Evan grips his cleaver. Nothing but crows and shadows live in these woods. No survivors live in this part of the woods, nothing that might have the slightest interest in harming him beyond the Entity lives here. Still, he’s not about to take any chances. It’s not unreasonable for the Shape to have wandered out here. The shadow appears again, along with more twigs snapping. He raises his cleaver above his head, prepared to strike whatever crawls out of the eternal twilight, and…. 

Holy shit. 

It’s a deer.

Not more crows. Not some passing shadow in a deer shape. A real, honest to god deer. Four legs, shiny black eyes, massive antlers, nipping at the ground, everything. It’s magnificent.

Things worked differently in the Entity’s realm. Some earthly sensations remained. Exhaustion, pain, fear, a whole host of unpleasant feelings, existed, but never the need to eat or drink. ‘Need’ being the keyword. Starvation did not exist, but hunger did. Hunger never persisted to the point of sickness, but it was always there, gnawing at Evan's ribs.

A plan begins to take shape in his mind. He must take caution. 150 pounds of meat stand less than fifteen feet away from him, but one wrong move and it will disappear forever. With painstaking care, he reaches into his waist bag and pulls out one of his bear traps and a pair of worn leather gloves. Once he dons the gloves, he sets the trap at his feet, trying his damnedest not to make a sound.

With the first trap set, he takes a few steps away from it and sets a second one. While pushing down the jaws, he loses focus for a second and snaps a twig. The deer looks up and turns its head, searching for the noise's source. Evan holds his breath. It blinks and, mercifully, goes back to grazing on the sparse grass. After a relieved sigh, Evan returns to setting the second trap.

With both traps set, Evan circles around until he’s behind the deer, every step made with mechanical precision and care. The deer has not yet seen him. Evan takes a single heavy and deliberate step forward, snapping twigs and leaves under his foot. Instead of taking off running, like any regular deer ought to, the deer looks up at him, blinks, and goes back to the grass.

The one advantage of all the Entity’s bullshit was that it made being loud and threatening and scary so goddamn _easy_. Not that Evan wasn’t ever able to threaten in his old life. Sometimes, if he was trying to intimidate someone as big as him or someone too stupid to scare, it just took more work. Now, all Evan has to do to get the deer to take off running is brandish his cleaver and bellow at it.

Within the first half-second, it looks like the deer might run right between the two traps and Evan will miss out on a meal. Then, it veers to the right. Those jaws snap. The deer gives off a panicked yelp. Success. Evan lumbers over and uses his cleaver to put the thing out of its misery. He makes quick work of skinning it and hefts the body over his left shoulder. 

Evan’s on his way back to his clearing when he hears a strange buzzing noise from above him. He looks above him. Between the branches of the nearest tree, in the lowest limbs, he sees the telltale hexagon combs of a beehive. God _damn_. Whether this is the Entity rewarding him for a job well done or some incredibly lucky coincidence remains unknown, but either way, he isn’t going to complain.

He sloughs the deer off his shoulder and reaches out with his cleaver to poke the hive. Bees fly out, but not many, far less than expected. The Entity probably has no goddamn idea how many bees should be in a beehive. Evan feels the faint prick of a few stings, but the sensation is so far away, so muted, that he ignores it entirely. He raises his cleaver and brings it down on the thing, cutting it clean in two. A large chunk falls down on the ground, along with a flow of honey.

Evan picks up the comb, wraps it up with a spare rag from his pocket, and puts it in his bag. Gathering up the deer once more, he returns on his journey. Back in the clearing, it doesn’t take him long to set up a spit with some of the sticks set aside for the fire. It had been years since he had cooked food outdoors. His father had taught him. He tries to keep his thoughts from straying as he cuts and prepares the deer, but, still, they wander.

Evan misses his father. Details about him have begun to fade from his memory: the features of his face, the sound of his voice. Even when he thinks long and hard about it, he cannot remember if his father was dead or alive before he ended up here. The span of time between his last days on Earth and his first days in this hellscape is nothing more than a muddled, gooey blur. Shaking his head, Evan pulls himself out of his daydream. 

He cuts a sizeable chunk of cooked meat off the spit. Bracing himself, he sits back on the ground, ready to eat his meal and watch the fire. The peace was not to last. Out of the corner of his eyes, Evan sees a faint shimmer and the barest trace of glowing eyes. Then he hears a bell ring, the sound coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once, and the shimmer takes physical shape. Shit. Maybe screaming at the deer wasn’t a good idea. 

What had the campers called it? Banshee? No. The Wraith. He crouches two yards away, his glowing eyes focused on Evan like beacons in the gloom. Evan doesn’t move a muscle. Beside them, the fire crackles and hisses.

He creeps a few feet in his direction. Evan brandishes his weapon, ready to knock the fucker out if he gets any closer. Sitting back on his haunches, the Wraith stops. When he blinks and his black tongue darts out to lick his lips, Evan realizes that he isn’t staring at him; he’s staring at the deer.

“Are you hungry?” Evan asks.

The Wraith says nothing. He reaches out with a painfully skinny arm and a bandaged hand. His long slender fingers grasp open and closed in the air. 

That seems as close to a yes as Evan would get. Shifting to the spit and being as quick as he can to avoid turning his back to the Wraith for too long, he cuts off a thin piece of meat and holds it out in the Wraith’s direction. The Wraith’s hand snaps out and snatches it away. He shoves the meat in his mouth, swallowing it so fast that Evan doubts he even chewed it. Licking his fingers, the Wraith sits back on his haunches and looks at Evan expectantly.

“More?” Evan asks.

The Wraith nods. With a little less urgency, Evan cuts off another piece. The Wraith shuffles a bit closer to take the offered meat, and he takes his time eating. They find a brief equilibrium, with Evan handing off a piece to the Wraith and, right after, grabbing a slice for himself. After a few minutes of this, Evan offers the Wraith another chunk, but just before he takes it, he pulls his cleaver back.

“I’ll let you keep eating, on one condition,” he says.

The Wraith blinks.

“I’m not sharing a meal with a stranger. What’s your name?”

The Wraith makes quick motions with his hands. His fingers shape into many different, finicky configurations. Only when he stops and looks at Evan expectantly does he realize that he was using some form of sign language to say his name.

“I didn’t quite get that. You’re gonna have to say it out loud.”

The Wraith makes a sad, strange expression. He presses his hand against his throat and opens his mouth. A raspy, warbling sound spills from his lips. It hurts Evan's ears.

“Can’t talk?” Evan asks.

The Wraith shakes his head.

“Couldn’t ever talk or….”

The Wraith points up at the sky.

“Right. Her.”

Evan looks down at his feet. He should have known something was up when the Wraith started talking with his hands and not his voice. Still, he _had_ to know his name.

“Can you write?” Evan asks.

The Wraith looks surprised, like doing so had never even crossed his mind. Then, he nods. Evan sighs in relief. Using his boot, he scrapes off the topmost layer of dirt, creating a smooth surface.

“Write your name there.”

Rather than doing what Evan expects and using his bony finger to write in the dirt, the Wraith reaches into his cloak and produces a scythe. A spine comprises the handle, and the blade juts from a jawless skull. He uses the butt of the weapon to carve large, careful letters into the soil.

P—H—I—L—I—P

“Philip?” Evan asks. It’s a standard name that doesn’t match the Wraiths horrifying form. Though he supposes that given his current, monstrous appearance, ‘Evan’ might appear similarly uncharacteristic.

Philip nods, and his eyes flare a bit brighter. He smiles. It’s a slight smile, but it’s there. Evan cannot remember the last time someone referred to him by anything other than 'Trapper.' to hear someone, damn near anyone, call him 'Evan' again would fill him with unparalleled joy.

“Well,” Evan says, holding out his hand, “nice to meet you, Philip. My name’s Evan.”

Philip hesitates, but then takes Evan’s hand. Everything about his hand is the polar opposite of Evan’s. Evan’s, like the rest of him, is furnace hot, and his dry, rough skin seems at the verge of cracking at any moment. Philip’s is freezing cold, and coated in a wet, mud-like substance. While scars litter Evan’s thick palm and sausage fingers, the visible skin on Philip’s slim palm and spindly fingers is shockingly smooth. Evan shakes Philip's hand.

“Alright, now we’re all introduced. Dig in.”

Philip scampers forward, right next to the fire. Either ignoring or unable to feel the fire’s heat, he peels a chunk of meat right off the spit and crams half of it into his mouth. He eats messily, hungrily. Evan cannot blame him. Whenever his own hunger had grown particularly vicious, he had chewed on pine needles to try and sate his stomach.

“Try this,” Evan says once Philip has downed the meat, holding out a piece of the honeycomb. “It’s sweet.”

Philip grabs the comb and chomps away half of it. Drops of honey drip down his chin, falling into the fabric of his cloak. Evan takes a bite of his own section of honeycomb. It’s sticky, sweet, far sweeter than anything in this place should be.

Philip stays by Evan’s side, and they eat until only bones remain on the spit. With the food gone, Philip lingers, staring at the flames along with Evan. They stay that way for a long while until the fire almost dies. The silence and darkness of the forest envelop them, only broken by the crackling of the wood and the glow of the last dying embers.


	2. Chapter 2

Evan does not remember falling asleep, yet he wakes. The sky above him shines a ruddy red, and the lack of moon signifies that it’s daytime. It took Evan some time to comprehend, but day and night _did_ exist in this realm. During the day, though it would be dim, the sky would shine anywhere from red to purple, and the occasional crow would flit across the sky. Throughout the night, the sky would gradually darken and darken, until it became a pitch black. A moon illuminated the sky, full every night. He could never quite determine when the moon appeared. At one moment it did not exist, and at another it did.

Reaching under the mask to rub his eyes, Evan hoists himself upright. Embers, barely glowing at this point, catch his eye. Not wanting to go through the pain of starting a new fire again, Evan shuffles over and puts more kindling on the fire. When the flame rises up once more, he stacks larger branches on top of it. Light bleeds from the fire, illuminating the area around it and casting shadows across a strange mass sitting near Evan on the forest floor. The mass vibrates, and a strange noise emanates from it.

Evan recoils and readies his cleaver. He’s about to chop it clean in two when he hears that strange noise again. It registers this time, and Evan realizes it’s not some creature’s growl. It’s snoring. Rubbing his eyes once more, he grabs a burning log from the fire and waves it over the mass, trying to discern what it is. In the flickering light, he first manages to make out a skinny arm tossed over what looks like a face.

Last night’s memories flood back into Evan’s brain. Of course, that’s _Philip_. How could he forget? Philip sleeps curled into a tight ball, one arm over his eyes, the other arm tucked under his side, gripping his scythe and bell. One of his legs sprawls out behind him. Though Evan thinks it looks quite uncomfortable, he sleeps soundly. Evan entertains the idea of waking him but decides against it. Instead, he travels along the outer perimeter of the clearing, hacking away whatever branches within reach for firewood. Through means he doesn’t understand, no matter how many branches he cuts down, more appear within a day.

When he returns to the fire, he finds Philip just starting to stir. He doesn’t mean to stare, but he ends up doing so anyway. Watching him wake is mesmerizing, like origami in reverse. His eyes snap open, lights switching on in his head. One at a time, He stretches out his limbs, and, like some force pulls him by marionette strings, he draws himself upright. Once he stands on firm footing, he spends a little while adjusting the bandages on his forearms and smoothing out the mud-like substance covering his skin. Scratching the side of his head, he yawns, revealing a set of small double fangs between otherwise-normal teeth.

Suddenly, Philips stops his preening. He looks, not at Evan, but over his shoulder. Evan glances behind him, paranoid the Shape has found his way out here. There, he sees nothing, nothing but the forest. With a series of excited clicks, Philip hoists his weapon over his shoulder and races into the treeline. It takes some time for him to understand, but Evan reasons that the campfire had called for him. What an odd response; Evan always dreaded the trials, but Philip seems downright ecstatic. 

No matter. Evan goes to arrange the cut wood in neat piles. Of course, he doesn’t get more than halfway through the bunch when he hears the familiar strange whispers in his ear and sees a flicker of light from afar. Damn. Yesterday’s feast must have been the Entity’s direct doing because otherwise, she would not have called on him again so soon after such a prosperous run of trials. He considers not going, for a second. The day has just started, his entire body hurts still, and he has no desire for the Entity to throw him into another loud, messy trial. What prevents him from staying is the knowledge what will happen if he _doesn’t_ go, a far worse alternative. His fingers ghost across the never-healing lacerations that cover his arms. Fine then. He’ll go.

During his trudge to the campfire, an uneasy premonition builds in his gut, one he cannot place. There’s nothing he sees, nothing he knows that could be the root cause of his apprehension, and yet he feels it, the same sensation a person gets when someone unseen watches them. It feels like a cold line of energy running up his spine. Evan walks faster.

Soon, the forest opens up, and he is back at the all-too-familiar campfire. Another figure stands in front of it, their head bowed. Evan ducks his head, not wanting to face them directly, even if they were facing the other way. Not that he feared for his own safety; it all circled back around to him not wanting to acknowledge his place in this world. However…he had engaged Philip directly, and nothing terrible had happened. In fact, he feels a bit more at peace. Just a glimpse couldn’t hurt.

Evan looks up at the figure and sees a tattered dress and a pair of feet floating a foot above the ground. The Nurse. Her shuddering, wheezing breaths are audible even over the campfire’s crackle. He wonders if its due to the filthy bag over her head or if there’s some, unseen source of pain. She reaches into the front of her dress and produces a pinecone, a skinny glass bottle, and a piece of rotted wood. Bending down as much as her levitating posture will allow, she tosses the items into the fire. Flames swallow them, and a shower of glowing sparks fly up into the air, into the red sky. A snarl of tendrils rises up from the earth, encases her, and pulls her down into the ground.

When she disappears, the fire glows a bit brighter. It knows Evan’s here. It’s his turn now. He steps forward, in front of it, and it hums, yearning for a sacrifice. Evan rifles around in his bag. Though he didn’t understand exactly how it worked, he knew that, if he did well during the trials, he could work up a cache of good will, a cache that allowed him to obtain items to aid him in the trials. If he kept a particular object or a goal in mind, and if he had a large enough cache, when he reached into his bag or pockets, he would find something. Today, he thinks and produces a set of rusted bear trap jaws, a bottle of tar, and two halves of a coin. Good haul.

He tosses the items into the flames. Momentarily, his gut tells him something’s wrong, but he cannot tell what. The smell of burning tar hits his nose, and sharp tendrils surround him. A strange but familiar sensation envelops him, that of falling, of standing at the edge of a precipice, of being underwater, of something wrapped tightly around him. Then, it all fades, and he stands at the foot of his old estate’s coal tower, the air cold and sinister.

He hates it when the Entity sends him here. This realm alone was enough to remind him of his sins. To stand here, on the grounds where he damned himself forever, sends a liquid cold through his nerves. Something else creates more unease in his gut. Something was wrong at the campfire. He doesn’t understand what, but something was wrong. It bothers him, itching at the back of his mind throughout the trial. It’s only halfway through his whole run of trials that he realizes what it was. The Shape was not sitting there.

The sudden cognizance stops him in his tracks. It gives the scruffy boy, the one who keeps breaking his traps, hoisted over his shoulder just enough time to produce a sharp object from somewhere and plunge it into his back. Evan yells in pain and drops him.

“Serves you right, dickhead!” the boy yells, running off into the brush.

Shaking off the pain, Evan growls and runs after him. It cannot distract him, it cannot. If he dwells on this for too long, too many of the survivors will slip through his fingers. When too many escape, he'll displease the Entity. Provided he displeases her enough, she will summon him directly to her, where he will have to explain himself. Of everything that could happen in this place, being in the Entity’s personal realm was the thing he most dreaded. No light filled the space, merely an endless, yawning black void. Tendrils would scrape across a person’s body, leaving behind thin, sharp trails of pain. Her voice would boom inside their head, a terrible din that rattled the inside of their skull. This entire place was hell, but true hell was there. Evan won’t let himself end up there, even as “where was the Shape?” hammers the inside of his skull like a metronome.

Though he cannot stop his endless internal questioning, he does manage a triumphant run of trials. Evan is brutal, ruthless. At the point where he can hardly bear another round, he sends a prayer up to the skies of ‘no more,’ and the tendrils appear to take him back to the campfire. As the last spike disappears into the ground, the adrenaline filling his body drains, leaving behind exhaustion and soreness. His entire body constantly hurts, especially where the hooks dig into his flesh and where open wounds mar his skin, but it’s always worse right after a trial. He has to stand still, to let the pain lessen before he even considers doing anything else. When the pain goes from white-hot to a persistent ache, he exhales and follows his gut back to the clearing.

When he returns, the fire is still burning. Odd. Evan didn’t stack on any wood on the fire before he left. Upon closer inspection, he realizes some of the tinder is gone from the woodpile and the branches he had to neglect in an unorganized pile now sit in neat stacks sorted by size. Even stranger, next to the stack, there's a crudely-drawn chart in the dirt. Letters fill each square. He wonders if this is the Shape’s doing. Then, he dismisses the idea. Why the hell would the Shape be stoking his fire and making cryptic charts? Just then, a bell rings in the gloom, and Evan looks over, in time to see Philip materialize out of nothing. 

“Ah, hello.” The momentary anxiety that flooded Evan’s body disappears. “You’re back.”

Philip nods and smiles. Blood spatters cover his face, his cloak, his arms. He looks wrong like this. In the light, his features are relatively gentle, especially when compared to the horrifying faces of the other killers. The blood combined with the glee in his expression, it doesn’t suit him. He remains standing there, but Evan cannot fathom why.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have anything more to eat.”

Philip shakes his head and pads over to the strange chart. He points at it using his scythe, trills, and points at Evan. Evan doesn’t quite understand.

“What’s this?” he asks.

Philip sits cross-legged at the bottom of the chart. He looks up at Evan and pats the ground next to him. Evan lumbers over and, with some difficulty, manages to sit next to him. Philip points at the top corner of the chart, where he scribbled the letter ‘A.’ He taps the square twice, then makes a sign with his hand.

“So that’s ‘A,’ right?” Evan says.

Philip nods. He taps Evan’s hand with his free hand and pushes the sign out further. Evan mimics the sign, and Philip grins. Pointing at the next square, the one with a scribbled ‘B,’ Philip makes a new sign. Without much hesitation, Evan copies it. Philip makes the sign for ‘A’ again and chirps until Evan does the same. After about forty minutes, they’ve gone through the whole chart, and Evan knows it well enough that he signs almost any letter without having to look back at it. When Evan shows as much, reciting the whole thing from memory, Philip wiggles where he sits and churrs.

“H—E—L—L—O—E—V—A—N,” he signs.

“Hel…lo, Phil…lip,” Evan says, doing his best to follow along with his hands.”

“Y—O—U—D—O—N—T—H—A—V—E—S—I—G—N,” Philip signs. “J—U—S—T—U—N—D—E—R—S—T—A—N—D—M—E.”

“Right,” Evan says, letting his hands drop. “So you wanna do this? Instead of writing?”

“F—A—S—T—E—R.”

“Yeah, but…” Evan bites his lip. “…You need to spell everything all the time.”

“C—A—N—T—E—A—C—H—W—O—R—D—S.”

Evan raises an eyebrow. He figured a person could sign letters, but he never thought that they could sign words as well. Though it sounds difficult, interest wins over in Evan's mind.

“Alright then,” he says. “Teach me.”

Philip grins, and Evan swears he has more sharp teeth than he did this morning.

Philip spends the rest of the evening, up until Evan begs off to go to sleep, teaching him signed words. They’re relatively basic things. Yes. No. Fire. Wood. Deer. Entity. Dark. Run. By the time the next day rolls around, Philip teaches him a few more signs, and they’ve both gone through another run of trials, Evan’s almost at the point where he understands a complete sentence from Philip, no need for spelling. It takes another day for Evan to realize that the strange sign Philip keeps repeating is _his_ name, or at least his own variation on it. The signal starts as that for ‘deer,’ but quickly turns into the letters ‘E’ and ‘V.’

To have Philip here, it fills Evan with a strange sentiment. Unlike every other peculiar emotion in this place, it isn’t a negative one or even a neutral one. This is a positive one. Evan cannot tell how much time has passed since he talked to anything besides the Entity or the voices in his own head. To have a friend in this wicked place fills him with something he has not had in a long time. Happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I played Wraith today and got one (1) salty message swearing me out. It was a good round.


	3. Chapter 3

The two of them find an equilibrium within the next few weeks. Most days, it just so happens that the campfire calls them at roughly the same time. They’ll spend the day running trials. Whichever one of them returns first will stoke the fire and gather firewood, and, once they’ve both returned, either Philip will spend the day teaching Evan more signs, or they will wander the woods together. It’s then they discover that, depending on which one of them is there, the woods will change. Evan’s version of the forest contained mostly oak and a few pine trees, with dry soil, large rocks, and scrubby grasses. Philip’s version of the woods included birch trees, with moist soil and patches of tall grass. When they wander the woods together, the forest becomes some fusion of the two.

Curiously, there’s one other unique thing in Philip’s version of the woods. Leafy stalks, distinct from the grass, dot the forest in bundles. One day, as they pass by yet another sheaf, Philip reaches over and yanks it straight out of the dirt. Strange, tan-colored bulb hang on the end of the plant. Philip grips them and pulls them apart from the stem, letting the green, leafy part fall to the ground.

“What do you have there?” Evan asks, as Philip meticulously wipes the dirt off them.

_“They’re important,”_ Philip signs, one-handed, tucking them into the mysterious place underneath his cloak that seems to have infinite storage capacity. “I’ll show you later.”

When they return to the clearing, Philip sits down in front of the campfire straightaway. There, Evan sits down next to him, partly because he has to set down some firewood he gathered, partly because he’s curious. After a brief yawn showcasing a set of small, vampiric fangs, Philip runs his hand down his face. The white markings Evan always assumed were just part of his features disappear into the brown mire. Evan flinches. Philip swiping them off his face headlong is the emotional equivalent for Evan of Philip rubbing away his nose with no effort.

“I thought those stripes were part of you,” Evan says, his voice a bit shaky.

Philip shakes his head. “No. It’s just paint.” He pulls the strange bulbs out from his cloak, sets them on the ground, and starts chopping them into small chunks.

“And you’re using that…thing…to make more paint?” Evan asks.

_“Ginger. Yes.”_

Between the chops, Evan sneaks a hand in and grabs a sliver of the ginger. The root is a strange, yellowish color and looks rather unappetizing in all honesty, but the smell implies that it _might_ taste good. Evan doesn’t have anything to lose at this point. He slides his hand under his mask and places the ginger on his tongue.

A flashbulb memory sparks in his mind, so sharp and so sudden it almost overwhelms him. He stands in the kitchen, peering over the counter. The Macmillan family’s newest cook, a man from the Eastern Asia whose name he cannot recall, upturns a sack of food from the market onto the table. A brownish, ugly root sits among the familiar vegetables.

_“What’s this?”_ the young Evan asks, picking up the root and wrinkling his nose.

_"You don’t know?”_ the man chuckles, plucking it out of Evan’s hands. _"It’s a spice. I’ll use it tonight. You’ll love it.”_

The last thing Evan can recall is the feeling of a warm, orangish soup on his tongue before the memory fades away, leaving a thousand questions to rattle the inside of his mind. What was his cook’s name? Did he like the soup? Was that a real memory? How long ago did it happen, if it happened? He bites down on the shred of ginger still in his mouth. It gives one last burst of flavor, then the taste disappears.

_“Do you have any spare fabric?”_ Philip asks, pulling Evan out of his stupor.

“Uh, yes, I think I do.” Evan opens his bag and manages to find a squarish scrap of leather. He holds it out to Philip.

Philip takes the scrap and sets it flat on the ground. Scraping the ginger into his fist and holding his fist above the leather, he squeezes. Small particles flutter from the bottom of his hand onto the square. As he works, the firelight shines on his face, illuminating the mountains and valleys of his skin, the wet, shiny sheen of his skin.

“I’ve meant to ask,” Evan says, “what’s that slime on your face?”

Philip pauses. _“I don’t know,”_ he signs. Dragging two fingers across his cheek, he holds the digits out in front of him and separates them. Thin, sticky trails of the material thread between his fingers. _“It just comes out of my skin. I think it’s mucus. Or mud.”_

“Does it feel strange?”

Philip shakes his head. _“It used to. Not anymore. It feels strange if it’s not there.”_

“Huh.”

Dragging his hand across his face again, Philip uses his cupped hand to scrape off a thick layer of mud. With a shake of his hand, he drips the slurry onto the ginger flakes. Then, he scoops up the leather square and, using one end to hold the end shut over the fire, squeezes and kneads at the pouch. After a minute of this, he sets the bag back on the ground and opens it. The pressure and heat and ginger powder have transformed the dark mud into a whitish, paste. Philip sticks a finger into the blend and, in a few quick strokes, he paints a trident-shaped design on his face. A smudge of white on his cheekbone sullies an otherwise-perfect stripe. Unthinking, Evan reaches out and uses his thumb to smooth out the flaw. Philip, who had been busy gathering back up the pouch, freezes. Evan freezes as well. _Why did he do that, why, why, why?_

“Oh, god, sorry Philip,” Evan stammers. Christ, he looks like an idiot. What's wrong with him? “There was a smudge. On your paint.”

Philip blinks. _“…It’s fine,”_ he signs. He touches his face, his fingers tapping slight indents into the mud. _“Did you fix it?”_ he asks.

“Y-yeah. It’s fixed.”

_"Okay. Thank you,"_ Philip says and tucks the pouch into his cloak.

“I’m gonna gather some more firewood,” Evan says, despite his full knowledge that they have more than enough firewood. Philip barely manages to get in an affirmatory response before Evan dashes into the woods. God _dammit._ Blood pulses through his face. He needs time to calm down so the panic will stop vibrating in his head. Thankfully, chopping wood was the perfect repetitive task to take one’s mind off things. By the time he gathers a sizeable bundle of wood, the most intense of his emotions are behind him. With a clearer mind, he feels comfortable enough returning home. Twigs crunch behind him. Evan turns around, expecting to find Philip having caught up with him. Instead, he stares into a blank white mask. 

Evan yelps, leaping back several feet and dropping his wood. Scrabbling for his cleaver, he tries to pull it off his belt, but cannot. The Shape does not move. Glittering moonlight casts a sharp glint off his knife, a glint that pierces Evan’s eyes. Closing his eyes, Evan thinks _'this is it.'_ This is how he’s going to die: at the hands of a masked mute, in hell’s forest. He waits for the inevitable blade to sink into his chest. It never arrives. There's no motion, no sudden lunge. His eyes open, and the Shape has not moved, does not move. All the Shape does is stare and stare and stare.

Fear, hot and acidic, eats at Evan’s throat. “Say something, goddammit,” he growls.

The Shape stares at him.

_"SAY SOMETHING!”_ Evan bellows.

The Shape turns his head to the side. It’s a slow, calculated motion. Silence hangs between the two of them, thick enough to cut. Then, without any apparent motivation, the Shape turns around and begins to leave. Evan watches him, watches him until he blends into the darkness of the woods, and not once does the Shape turn. Though he has gone, Evan feels no less unsafe. A terrible, discordant sensation drums in his head, like dozens of off-key pianos. He does not wander the woods alone after that occasion.

Evan does not tell Philip about the Shape. Merely remembering the incident dries his throat, and, besides, he doesn’t want to give Philip anything to worry about: the Shape’s interest seems to extend only to him. The simplest solution is to travel with someone else. If he wants to explore, Evan decides, even if he just wants to go for a walk, he'll damn well wait for Philip to come back. He'll fill enough of the hours with chopping firewood and fixing his traps to keep himself entertained. When Philip returns, all he needs is a brief nap, then he’s more than willing to travel with Evan. Philip’s presence proves useful far sooner than Evan would have expected, though for unexpected reasons.

Roughly a week after his encounter with the Shape, as the two of them meander through the forest, Evan hears another telling snap of twigs. Evan thinks the Shape has found him, but he soon dismisses the idea. An eerie calm had always surrounded the Shape’s presence. Now, Evan's pulse hammers in his throat. Adrenaline magnifies even minute details. He knows exactly where he stands, where Philip stands, how long it would take him to get his cleaver off his belt, how far away the clearing is, any hiding places for either himself and Philip or the other among the trees. Silence reigns.

It’s only now that Evan realizes the forest has changed. In addition to the usual blend of he and Philip’s version, larger than life trees litter the landscape. Among these massive trees stand smaller, dead trees, crumbling sections of brick walling, and broken scraps of wooden things. How could he and Philip have missed this?

_“Kto tam!?”_ a voice cuts through the gloom. It has a heavy accent, one that sounds vaguely familiar to Evan, but impossible to name.

“Who’s there?” Evan shouts back, master of stealth that he is. A few meters away, two women step out from behind the trunk of one of those giant trees. One stands at an impressive height, with a rabbit-shaped mask, a veil covering the back of her head, and a large hatchet in hand. Evan does not recognize her, but he has overheard the survivors whispering about an ax-armed woman: the Huntress. The other does not stand, rather floats, and has a bag covering her features. Her, Evan recognizes.

“Stay back,” the Huntress says, putting her free hand out in front of the Nurse. The Nurse puts her hand on her arm.

“I asked who’s there,” Evan repeats, louder.

The Huntress grips her hatchet tight. “I asked you first,” she responds. “Who are you and your…” she points her weapon in Philip’s general direction. “…Friend.”

“I’m Evan,” Evan says, reaching to his side and slowly pulling his cleaver off his belt. “That’s Philip.”

The Huntress tips her head downward. “Why does he not identify himself?”

Evan practically feels Philip’s wince. “He can’t,” he says to the Huntress. “Who are you?”

“Anna,” she replies. “And Sally.”

“Can Sally not speak?” Evan throws back.

“Not from such a distance.” The Huntress lowers her stance. “I do not like your tone, Evan.”

“Well I didn’t like yours,” Evan says, tightening his grip on his cleaver. In any other circumstances, he would not be so inflammatory, but she made Philip upset, and that makes his blood run hot. He barely registers Philip’s anxious clicking from next to him. Anna adjusts her grip on her hatchet. This would have escalated, had it not been for Sally. She floats up a few inches, cups Anna’s ear, puts what must be her mouth to it. Just for a second, Anna remains silent.

“Sally says she knows you,” Anna shouts, her tone a bit gentler.

“…Yes?” Evan replies. He had hardly interacted with her, but he supposes just seeing someone else in this place could count as ‘knowing’ them.

“She says you are a decent man. Not wanting to start trouble. So I will leave you be, for now. _Do svidánija._ " With that, she turns and disappears back into the twilight as mysteriously as she appeared. Sally casts one glance back at the two of them, then follows.

They stand in silence, for a moment. 

“I think we ought to go back now,” Evan says.

Philip nods.

The woods have other plans for them. Evan knows he’s heading in the correct direction; he feels the pull in his gut. Still, the trees thin and thin, and strange metal structures crop around them. Philip edges closer to Evan as the forest dwindles around them. Soon, the trees give way to an unfamiliar clearing, a clearing they stand on the edge of, and a piercing sound rips through the air. A creature stands in the center of the clearing, swinging around a weapon.

Evan cannot view the creature’s face, but he sees the weapons it wields. One hand holds a sledgehammer, and that’s easy enough for Evan to understand. What rattles Evan is the weapon he holds and swings over his head. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen before: some motorized saw blade. The chain, attached to a large, noisy motor, loops around a two-foot metal tongue. On the next swing of the contraption around, the creature turns around, and Evan lays eyes on him.

The name ‘Hillbilly’ enters his mind. He wears torn clothing coated in a thick layer of grime. His features are the most horrifying Evan’s ever seen, and he cannot tear his gaze away. Glowing eyes lie deep within his skull, and only the left is intact. Thick beds of striated scar tissue ensnare the right and travel all the way down his upper arm, stopping at a stained bandage. The tissue covers part of his lip, pulling his mouth open to where it looks like he’s always screaming. Sparse hair covers the back of his head and trails down the scarring.

With a slow, lazy turn on one foot, the Hillbilly swivels around, facing the two of them. A cold spike rams through Evan’s gut. The Hillbilly lays his eyes on Philip and, with a terrible yell, rushes right at him. Philip shifts his position and readies his scythe, preparing to dive out of the way and catch the Hillbilly with his blade at the last second. It won’t be enough. Judging from the Hillbilly’s speed and the length of the sawblade, Evan sees that no matter how quick Philip is, he won’t be able to dodge and land a hit. Instinct kicks in, and before he even recognizes what he’s doing, Evan leaps in front of Philip, his cleaver held high. By what must be the largest stroke of luck Evan has ever had, his blade slices between the chain and the metal tongue. With the saw's shriek and with one last pop of the motor, the blade stops moving.

The Hillbilly stops short. Looking down at his weapon, he takes one shuddering breath. Then another. Evan _expects_ the Hillbilly to scream, to attack him, to swing his hammer, to try and knock him to the ground. Everything considered Evan was ready to take him in a fight. He does _not_ expect him to drop the saw, slump down on the ground, and start bawling.

“You _broke_ it!” he howls, burying his face in his hands. “This is all I had, an’ you _broke_ it!”

Three realizations strike Evan simultaneously. First: this creature is nowhere near as formidable as his appearance would imply. Second: this creature has a thick accent that renders his speech almost unintelligible to Evan’s ear. Third: based on his callow speech and tantrum of reaction, this creature is a _child_. He looks at Philip, who wears a wide-eyed expression.

_"What do we do?”_ Philip signs.

_"I don’t know,”_ Evan signs back.

_"He’s a child.”_

_"I know.”_

Evan approaches the Hillbilly, slowly. He guesses he has enough spare parts to try and repair the saw if that would cure his fit. Though he reaches out at first, he hesitates. This Hillbilly might be a child or child-like, but that doesn’t make him, any less dangerous. The sledgehammer is still held firmly in his hands. They might have a worse problem on their hands, however, if the Hillbilly calms from his tantrum and decides to take his revenge. Standing as far away as he manages, Evan puts his hand on the Hillbilly’s unmarred shoulder.

“What’s your name, son?” 

The Hillbilly sniffs. He seems to have calmed down, but as he looks from Evan to Philip and back again, he shows no sign of speaking.

“Here,” Evan says. “I’ll say our names, then you can say yours.” He puts his hand on his chest. “My name is Evan.” He points out at Philip. “And that’s Philip. Now, what’s your name?”

The Hillbilly sniffs again and wipes his nose with his bare arm. “M-max,” he stutters.

Max. It’s a solid name, reliable. Evan cannot form a general opinion of Max yet, but he does like his name.

“Well, Max, I can fix your saw,” Evan says, “but I have to go to a special place to do it. Do you want to come with me, so I can fix it?”

“You promise you ain’t gonna hurt me?”

“We won’t hurt you, Max.” Evan hardly believes his ears. Not five minutes ago he swung a saw at them. Now, he feels like _he’s_ the one in danger?

“You gotta promise!” Max cries. “Promise you won’t hurt me.”

God. He is a child. “We won’t hurt you. We promise,” Evan says and holds out his hand. Max takes it, and Evan hauls him into a standing position. Philip gives Evan a surprised look, one of _I can’t believe that worked._

_"I can’t believe it either,”_ Evan signs. 

The walk back to the clearing is as silent. Crunching dirt sounds through the air, the sound of one set of bare feet and of two sets of boots. The only change in sight is the gradual darkening of the sky, the slow glow of the moon stretching through the trees, and, eventually, the steadfast light of their fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Hannukah y'all


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long wait between chapters! I had exams and then was out of the country for a while. I hope you enjoy

The firelight casts strange shadows across Max’s face. Evan keeps looking up from the saw in his lap to Max and keeps regretting it. Being a creature of nightmares himself hasn’t stopped him from being frightening by different monsters. Every time he looks at Max’s face, it sends a spark of fear through his system. Thankfully, any tantrums or tantrum-like behavior has subsided. Max sits quietly, his legs crossed and his chin in his hands, watching Evan as he works.

His watchful gaze isn’t doing Evan’s concentration any favors. Though the mechanics inside the saw are nothing Evan hasn’t seen before, he marvels at how small and neat everything is. The gears and the springs and the chains keep slipping through his fingers, and he must don a pair of gloves to keep from dropping the pieces in the dirt. Thankfully, the damage is minimal. A simple fix, he uses his cleaver and a bit of brute force to shove the gears’ teeth and parts of the chain back into place.

Removing the parts is simple. Placing those delicate mechanics back in precise spots with large, clumsy fingers is the real challenge. For five minutes, he tries to replace a gear the size of his thumbnail, but every time he thinks he has it, it either slides between his fingers or refuses to go in. He gets close this time, but for the hundredth time, the gear slips and lands square in the dirt. God dammit. Maybe he’s doing this wrong; perhaps a second opinion would help.

“Philip!” he calls.

Philip looks up from where he’s standing, a few feet behind Max. He kept an eye on him, making sure he’s no danger to the two of them or himself. Blinking, he cocks his head to the side and stares at Evan.

“Come help me with this.”

Philip nods and drifts over. It’s strange. Despite him being solid and visible, with his feet firm on the ground, his steps are so fluid that it looks as if he’s floating. For someone so tall and gaunt, he’s graceful, Evan thinks.

_“What is it?”_ Philip asks, crouching down next to him. He props up one of his arms on his knee and rests his chin in his hand.

“Do you know where the hell this is supposed to go?” Evan asks, holding out the offending gear.

Philip takes it with his free hand. As he turns it over, holding it close to his face and inspecting it, the light from his eyes catch the metal, bathing it in a whitish glow. Evan glances between Philip and Max and back again and realizes that they have the same eyes: glowing white and perfectly round, set in their skulls like marbles. The similarity makes him feel a strange, unidentifiable emotion. It’s a bit of fear, a bit of comfort, a bit of confusion, a bit of something else.

_“I think this needs to go here,”_ Philip says, pointing from the gear to an empty gear shaft Evan hadn’t noticed before. He hands the gear back to Evan. _“I’m not sure though. This is old machinery so I might be wrong.”_

Evan tries again, and, mercifully, it fits. His victory, a slight burst of happiness, is short lived. It takes a minute for Philip’s full sentence to sink into Evans mind, but when it does, it sinks like lead. A tight feeling holds his throat. “I’m sorry, did you say this was old?” he asks, his voice faint.

Philip shoots him a strange look. _“Yes? It has to be thirty years old, at least.”_

Evan swears helium is filling his head. He feels separate from reality, separate from his body, separate from the conversation he’s having. By his own estimations, the Entity has trapped Evan here a few years at most, but now he’s not so sure.

Philip snaps his fingers in front of Evan’s face. _“Evan? Evan, are you o—”_

“How old are you, Philip.” His voice is monotone.

_“Pardon me?”_

“Tell me how old you are.”

Philip blinks. When he signs again, his fingers are slow. _“I’m twenty-five.”_

Three years his junior. That’s what Evan expected. Despite the mud, he can see the youth in Philip’s face. But if this machine was old, and Philip was twenty-five, ….

“What year were you born, Philip.” 

Philip scowls, annoyed, but Evan can’t blame him. He doesn’t understand the cause of his fear. _“Evan, this hardly seems like the ti—”_

“Dear God Philip, tell me when you were born.” Evan’s voice falters, fainter than a whisper.

Philip’s scowl vanishes. He around, like they are hiding from someone. It takes him some time, but he finally signs the damned year. _“…1958.”_

Evan puts his head in his hands. He doesn’t move, hardly breathes. After a long while, he feels Philip’s hand on his shoulder, and that is just enough to prompt him to look up.

_“Evan, how old are you?”_ Philip asks. 

Evan doesn’t reply. Not that he doesn’t want to: he can’t. His throat has closed, like the Entity’s own tendrils were grabbing windpipe and squeezing. Bile burns the back of his throat. Somewhere outside his panic, he prays he doesn’t vomit. He has vomited in the mask before, and, to say the least, it was an unpleasant experience.

_“Come on, tell me,”_ Philip says. _“You’re not an old man under that mask are you?”_ He laughs, but it comes across as a painful, raspy chittering sound rather than laughter. He’s trying to make a joke, to lighten the mood. It isn’t working, for him or for Evan.

“I’m twenty-eight, Philip.” It’s something so simple, so stupid, three goddamn words, but Evan still feels as if he’s standing in a confessional, spilling his sins. 

A nervous expression flickers across Philip’s face. _“Well, when were you born?”_

“1867.”

Philip says nothing. His hands clench and unclench, contorting into claw-like shapes. _“You mean 1967, right?”_ He doesn’t believe him.

“One. Eight. Six. Seven. Eighteen sixty-seven.” Evan repeats, sounding out each syllable.

_“No, no,”_ Philip says, shaking his head. He’s smiling, but the pain in his eyes makes it look like he’s baring his teeth. _“That can’t be right, it can’t be.”_

“Philip. I’m right. Don’t deny it.” 

Philip keeps shaking his head. _“No. It can’t be.”_ His eyes flicker back and forth in his head, ticking like a metronome. Soon, they settle and widen, as if he has come to some profound realization. _“What’s the last thing you remember?”_ he asks.

“From when?” Evan asks, annoyance creeping into his tone. “I lived a whole life.”

_“Just name…a war! Name the most recent war you remember,”_ Philip says. His hands shake. Evan can hardly make out his words.

“It was…” Evan searches his brain. “I don’t think there was a war when I was alive. No, wait, there was. I was a child though. My father fought in it. I can’t remember anything about it except what he told me.” 

_“The name, what was the name?”_ Philip asks.

Evan wracks his brain. The Entity’s realm has warped and distorted his memories, so what he can remember tends to be random and, most times, far from useful. “I-I can’t remember. He said something about fighting with…a union? God, I can’t remember. I’m sorry.”

Philip’s eyes go wide. _“The Union?”_ he asks.

“I think so?”

Philip gives off a pained hiss. He puts his head in his hands and signs from there, making his words difficult to understand. _“Evan, oh my god. That was the Civil War. You were alive for the Civil War.”_

The name sounds vaguely familiar to Evan, but the familiarity offers no comfort. Not with the way Philip grips his head like it will split in two if his hands aren’t there. Not with the way Philip’s mouth snaps open and closed. 

“Philip. Philip, stop that.” Evan reaches out, trying to pry his hand from his head. The moment their skin connects, Philip snaps one hand away, leaving the other to remain on his skull. 

_“1982,”_ he says with one clumsy hand. _“She took me in 1982. When did she take you?”_

Evan wonders if telling him would make things better or worse. He doesn’t know, but he tells him anyway. “1895.”

The hand on Philip’s head clenches, digging dangerously into his flesh. _“87 years. You’ve been here for nearly a century. How long have I been here?”_

His signing dissolves into something incomprehensible and repetitive, though Evan can’t imagine that it’s anything above the ‘oh God’ ricocheting in his own mind. 87 years. He doesn’t feel a day over twenty-eight, let alone one-hundred and fifteen years old. Time still passed while he was trapped here. All things considered, time was _still_ passing. Everyone he knew, everyone he had known was likely dead. Oh God, oh God.

Evan is so lost in thought, he doesn’t notice Philip lurching his way over to Max, his usual grace gone. For a moment, Evan fears his jerky movements will frighten Max and send him into another tantrum state, but Max merely looks up and blinks as Philip approaches him. _“Max, what was the last war you remember?”_ Philip asks.

Max stares at Philip. After several seconds of silence, Philip repeats himself. No response. Blinking, Max turns to Evan.

“Why’s your friend makin’ weird hands at me?” he asks.

A thousand expressions flicker across Philip’s face. When the cycle ends, he stands stonefaced, no emotion visible. He trudges back over to Evan.

_“I forgot others can’t understand me,”_ Philip says. His eyes seem to have a liquid quality, rather than their usual glow.

“It’s okay, Philip,” Evan says, trying to keep his voice level, though a stabbing pain pierces his heart. “I can ask him.”

_“I forgot,”_ he says again. His hand disappears into his cloak. Evan hopes he isn’t going to disappear. Philip, a few times before, for reasons Evan does not know, has grown sad and, with a ring of his bell, disappeared into the twilight. He always returns, but Evan does not want him to leave him alone with Max. Though his hand remains in his cloak, Philip does not produce his bell; he sits cross-legged on the ground, stares into the fire, and speaks no more.

“Hey Max,” Evan says, carefully approaching him and kneeling down, so he’s on eye-level. “Before you came here, in these woods, do you remember anything big or important? Something a lot of people talked about?”

“That’s a weird question,” Max says. He didn’t hear their conversation. Either he didn’t hear, or he didn’t understand.

“Yes,” Evan says, “but could you please answer it?”

Max crosses his arms and looks down at the grown. Chrissakes.

“If you answer, I’ll be able to fix your saw faster,” Evan offers, saturating his tone with as much sweetness as he can muster.

That gets Max to perk up. He puts his hand to his chin and scrunches his face, a pantomime of thinking hard. After much longer than comfortable, he speaks. “I don’t remember much, but I do remember a big ol’ party.”

Well, it’s something. “Yes, that’s good,” Evan says, trying to draw more out of him. “Anything else you remember about this party?”

Max makes the thinking face again. “People was real happy. An’ I know that ‘cause the lady that brings me my food was outside makin’ a racket. Her and all her friends was just hollerin’ and hollerin’ about some kinda ‘viktury.’ They was so excited, she forgot to bring me my supper. I was real hungry that night, so I guess it warn’t much of a party for me.”

Max looks down at the ground and frowns. Evan doesn’t know where he’d begin unpacking all _that_ , but that’s irrelevant now. He needs to know victory over _whom_.

“Were they shouting anything else, when they were shouting ‘victory’?”

Max’s frown disappears, replaced again by the thinking face. He mutters to himself, the same letters on repeat: V-J, V-J, V-J. Finally, his face lights up, and he snaps his fingers. “Oh! I remember now! They was shoutin’ ‘viktury’ and ‘jaypen.’”

It doesn’t make a lick of sense to Evan, but Philip hisses from where he sits. Evan looks and sees him, head down, his hands clasped over the back of his neck. He turns back to Max.

“Did I do good?” Max asks, preventing Evan from getting the first word in.

“Pardon?” Evan asks.

“Was that helpful?” Max asks, wide-eyed.

“Yes,” Evan sighs.

A large goofy smile takes over Max’s face. He giggles. “I did good! I did good, and my saw’s gonna get fixed! Gosh!”

Max being so happy while he and Philip are having a crisis is frustrating, to say the least. However, if it's enough to keep him content for a while longer, that’s more than fine with Evan. While Max continues to sit and beam, Evan makes his way over to Philip.

“I don’t know what that means,” he confesses. “But you do. Clearly, you do. What does it mean?”

Philip doesn’t look up. He raises his hands to speak. _“It’s V-J day. Victory in Japan. The end of World War Two.”_

“You’re telling me that in 87 years, there were _two_ world wars?”

_“A lot’s happened since 1895. God knows how much has happened since 1982.”_ Philip sniffs and wipes his eyes with one skinny, bandaged arm. He looks up at Evan, his eyes hazy. _“We’re never going to die, are we Evan? We’re going to be stuck here, forever.”_

“Philip….” Evan reaches for him. He's unsure of what he’s trying to do, but Philip ducks his head before he can get any closer. 

_“I’m fine. I’m fine.”_ He rubs his palms into his eyes, smearing the mud on his face and the paint. _“Sorry for getting emotional. I’m going to sleep now.”_

“Philip, no, Philip, it’s fine, really,” Evan stammers, trying and failing to come up with anything decent to say.

Philip merely waves him off and drifts to his usual spot. Circling around, his bare feet drawing circles in the dirt, he kneels down. Throwing up his arm so that his cloak will cover his eyes, he curls in on himself and lies down. Evan approaches him, but Philip curls up tighter. He doesn’t want to talk now. Fine. That’s fine. They’re fine. It’s fine.

“Mister Evan?” 

Evan sighs. “Yes, Max?”

“Is my saw almost fixed?”

Yes. Of course. “Just a minute,” Evan says. He trudges back to it, sits back down, and finishes the rest in record time; he’s running on autopilot. It takes him ten minutes to shove in the final gear, to attach the last plate, to bring the saw over to Max and place it in his waiting hands. The unburdened half of his mouth curls up into a smile's facsimile.

“Thank you, Mister Evan!” Max chirps.

“Now, you promise not to hurt Philip or me with that, right?”

“No, sir.” He holds the saw and his sledgehammer to his chest the same way a child might carry a puppy.

“Good. Now,” Evan says, waving his hand, “off with you.”

Max scrambles up. He stands a bit shorter than Evan, and that’s with his poor posture. If he stood up straight, he’d be an inch or two shorter. It's impressive, given that, though the Entity made him larger, Evan was always tall. He's unsure how that makes him feel.

He expects Max to scurry back off into the woods, but he does not. Instead, he takes a few steps back and flops on the ground. Evan thinks he fell until he curls up into a tight ball, his weapons held between his chest and his knees, and closes his eyes. Oh god, he’s going to _sleep_ here. A thousand reasons why that is a bad, terrible idea shutter through Evan’s mind. 

“G’night Mister Evan,” Max says. “G’night Mister Philip,” he whispers, curling up more. 

All the reasons why letting him stay would be a dangerous idea fade from Evan’s mind in the face of the knowledge that Max, evident now more than ever, is a child. He’s a child who doesn’t understand the implications of why he is here, how he is here, doesn’t know 1895 from 1982 from whenever the Second World War was. Evan can’t make him leave. It would be nothing short of cruel. He sits down on the ground, looks up at the full moon, a silver eye looking down from the pitch sky.

“Goodnight, Max.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone!

**Author's Note:**

> This is incredibly self-indulgent. If you enjoyed it so far, let me know! I will update when I can.


End file.
